Chapter Text
Aemond picks her up at the train station. He looks more than a little upset at the trip, both hands gripping the wheel as he hurriedly asks her to get in, he’s meant to be at fencing practice at half six.
So, naturally, she takes an extra few minutes to situate all her luggage in the backseat, because it makes him tap his thumb on the plastic, gaze meeting hers in the mirror.
“Hel,” he snaps, and even his frustration sounds subdued, pushed so far under the surface that she can barely see the ripples. “C’mon.”
She gives in; he’s less fun to tease these days, because all it ever gets her is a little humph and an eye roll. Over the holidays, her first time home since learning that life can be fun and boys can kiss you all over without Father John being any wiser, he seemed content to ignore her completely, escaping to his room when she would watch movies with Aegon or play games in the den with Daeron.
Aemond used to play her shadow, following her around the house and tagging along to the very few parties she managed to get invited to in school. Always at her heels, a loyal little puppy. Now, he even seems more interested in putting up with their older brother than spending time with her, despite all the occasions he used to crawl into her bed and bemoan the mere fact that Aegon was allowed to exist in the same vicinity as them.
How times change.
He lets her play with the radio on the drive, and she shifts through five different stations before he simply points wordlessly at the glove box. There’s a mess of CDs inside; Aegon’s punk handoffs and a few of their mother’s oldies. She puts in Combat Rock, because it seems like the sort of emo thing Aemond would be into right about now.
Being 18 is rather like finding out the shocking truth that everyone else in the world has felt the exact kind of personal turmoil you’re currently experiencing.
Her instincts are right; he resumes the tapping on the wheel immediately, and yet his face seems far more relaxed at the beat. It feels less cold and quiet, and more as if they're both simply enjoying the moment, comfortable enough for her to attempt to broach the silence.
“I thought Aegon was picking me up,” she offers, but he only lets out a short huff.
“Mum can’t get ahold of him.” He looks disappointed in the mere mention, expression clouding over with an unending sort of frustration. “She sent me.”
Obviously, as they’re currently sitting in the car together. It’s not a great loss for her, but it’s clearly a point of contention for him, as his mouth slips into a thin line, not even attempting to hide the grimace.
It somehow looks natural on his face, the vague air of irritation and disappointment. It makes something clench in her belly, even as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, expelling the frustrated energy. He slides down to his neck, tugging on the shirt collar and freeing the silver cross that lays underneath, until it swings down to settle on his chest.
She reaches out without much thought, fingers on the metal just as he jolts from her touch, slipping from her hand to lean forward over the wheel.
“You still wear it?”
Half a tease, and he manages a stilted nod as he settles further against the door, like he can’t put enough distance between them.
Briefly, she wonders where her own necklace must reside. Mother had gotten them all a matching set, and Aegon sold his for cash while Daeron lost one during a show jumping competition. She used to wear hers until maybe year nine, when she started dressing for herself on the weekends, and a delicate cross didn’t seem to suit her style anymore. Didn't seem to do much of anything, except leave little red lines around her neck.
Yet, it fits that Aemond has clung to his, so similar to the one that sits below their mother’s neck. Anything to show he still believes like her. Practices like her. Deprives himself like her.
He doesn’t respond to the question, so she lets her gaze slip back to his face, the blonde locks growing close to his ears and the slope of his cheeks. More pronounced than she remembers, just as his mouth appears harder and his shoulders seem wider.
“You look different.”
He glances over, just a moment before he turns back to the road, and his grip squeezes tightly. “Different?”
“Yeah,” she leans back in the seat, shifting to look clearly at his profile, the curve of his nose and the long eyelashes spilling over his skin. “Older.”
Aemond hums, but he doesn’t try to argue.
“Wiser,” she teases, and still he won’t crack a smile. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”
He makes another flat noise, something noncommittal and verging on casual, even if it feels forced. “Don’t be.”
The dismissal tugs on her heart; when they were young, he used to beg her to wake up early on his birthday, to make breakfast or take a walk or simply be together before everyone else was around. How desperate he was for her attention, how needy and aching.
Now, her little brother seems to need for nothing, except the soft praise their mother gives when he brings her another perfect test.
“Do you want anything now that I’m home?”
The window rumbles under her head, and it feels like her whole body is vibrating from the feeling. Shaking and shaking and waiting to see what comes out.
“No,” he mutters, and he turns onto the winding street, the curving road they used to sprint down, racing until one of them collapsed on the side. “Maybe money.”
She laughs at that, yet Aemond doesn’t join in. He keeps his focus locked on the road, arms outstretched so stiffly that she fears he’ll pull a muscle if he doesn’t learn to breathe in front of her once more. So tight and tense, like he's holding something back. Keeping something better from getting in.
“You’re not supposed to drive at night,” she mutters, a final attempt at a taunt, and his jawline tenses once more at the reminder.
Finally, she’s hit the target.
“It’s not night-“
“The sun is setting.” She drags a finger along the glass, pointing as the light follows beside their car. “And you said you have practice.”
“So?”
“So, it’ll be dark by the time you help me unload all my bags. And you’ll have to drive there.” She glances back at the suitcases, just as he lets out the smallest chuckle.
It’s not happy, not funny. It’s strained and angry, and she’s surprised to find that she doesn’t totally mind that, so long as she can spot the little wrinkles in his cheek when his mouth curves wider.
“I’ll bring your shit in later-“
“It’s not shit,” she snaps. “It’s my clothes and books and my bugs. They’re important.”
The car pulls into the long driveway, and Aemond keeps his head turned away from her, gazing out the window as they roll past the shed, the treehouse Cole single-handedly built for Daeron all those years ago. Unused and empty, but nice enough to look at.
“Are you mad at me?” It slips out quicker than she realizes, a lingering worry that’s haunted her since winter break. “Or are you just this miserable with everyone?”
He sighs, hefty and empty all at once, yet he makes no move to answer.
“If I did something to you-“
“We’re here,” he announces, in case she doesn’t recognize the house as her own. “Mother will be waiting.”
Oh, well if Mother is waiting. She better get a fucking move on.
At least he lingers long enough for her to pull the collection board out from the backseat, along with her jar of longhorn beetles. The pets skittle up the glass as she slams the door shut, but when she notices two of the pinned moths have fallen off, stuck to the seat with the anchors straight through their chest, she elects to leave them there.
Maybe that’ll be his gift.
She takes too long in the shower. The water runs cold and the room is sticky with heat, yet it still feels like the grime of travel is coated on her arms, her legs, her chest. The thick air of the train and the sweat from lugging her suitcases around, all coated to her body and unable to be scrubbed clean. Stuck on her forever, maybe.
There are few clothes left in her closet, and her luggage is still trapped in Aemond’s car, so she wagers that borrowing from his own dresser would be a fair exchange. Most of the shirts are black and he seems to have 3 pairs of the same jeans, but she finds some old shorts and a t-shirt that fit well enough.
Mother gives kisses on her cheek and gestures vaguely to whatever candy is in the bowl on the counter, just before she says she has some meeting for Daeron’s Boy Scout troop tonight.
“I’ll be back late,” she offers, hand pushing at her hair, the familiar little smile on her mouth. “Don’t be too wild.”
It’s the same refrain she’s given them all since Aegon was 13 or 14 and stole their neighbour's golf cart, only to race his friend's Mustang and drive it into the nearby pond. Truthfully, nothing she’s ever done has come close to being quite that wild, even as her elder brother attempts to outdo himself every year, but she appreciates the reminder.
It’s nice to have something to work towards, anyway.
She picks at leftovers in the kitchen (cold pizza and frozen pretzels, and they both taste just the same, yet neither are very good,) and watches some talk show on mute. It’s exactly as entertaining as the food, and when the front door opens with a soft chime, she finds herself turning towards the doorway, anticipation rising.
It’s Aegon, likely. He’ll offer her one of the wine coolers hidden in the back of the pantry (the ones that certainly do not belong to their mother) and ask how it feels to no longer be a first year, so she’ll say you’d know if you stayed and he’ll go I wanted to but they said I couldn’t and she’ll ask was it the low marks or that horrible foam party where the headmaster’s son threw up on the university flag and he’ll tell her-
“That’s mine.”
Aemond stands behind the counter, one hand on his bag and the other set firmly on the marble. He looks surprised more than anything, but then he seems to taper it down into a sort of electric focus, one that sends a not wholly unpleasant feeling up her spine.
“That’s my shirt,” he clarifies. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”
She shrugs. “You didn’t let me get my things-“
“So you stole mine?” He slaps the bag on the counter and crosses his arms firm over his chest, a little boy throwing a fit. “Honestly, Hel.”
Honestly.
He slips the keys from his pocket, and there’s a horrible clanging sound when he sets them on the counter. “Go on,” he says, but she doesn’t move.
One, two, three seconds, pizza crust crumbling to dust under her hand and Aemond’s steady gaze, unwilling to glance away. The most he’s looked at her for some time, measuring and comparing and waiting, she thinks. Only she’s not sure for what.
“Alright,” he whispers. “Give me a second.”
It’s pitch dark on the walk to the garage, and he stumbles just slightly on the gravel, hand shooting out to grab her arm. She holds still, because they did this dance enough as children that she knows what he needs, knows that if she says anything (are you alright, is it okay, can you see) he’ll shut down even more.
When he moves again, he steps far in front of her, determined to lead the way. To keep her on the right path.
She lets him take the suitcases, so she can gather the remaining collection cases and the little moths left on the cushion. One presses right into the open glass container, and the other she tucks beneath his front seat, just in case.
Once her clothes are in her room and her bugs are adorning the dresser once again, Aemond tries to flee, only his body seems at odds with the concept. He stands in the door way, hand on the knob and a little offering to placate her, slipping out so easily that it must have been bouncing around in his head for some time.
“You can keep the shirt,” he says, and his fingers squeeze too hard on the metal, enough to make the hinge creak. “You can- I don’t need it back.”
Don’t want it back, more likely, which is a different kind of concept. One that she likes even better.
She nods, and she lets her hands grab at the bottom, holding the hem as he pretends not to watch. Pretends like he’s not lingering, waiting for something else, a further admittance or offering.
“I was going to go get some food.” The shirt crumples up in her fist, wrinkling enough that it creeps up her belly when she lets go, and she watches him avoid the sight with a devout determination. “Do you wanna come?”
She drives (it’s nighttime, he says, and his mouth curves up just like Mother’s,) but he directs, sending her to a little sandwich shop on the corner. She sits in the car when he orders for them both, hands stuffed in his pockets and body standing so straight, glancing back to meet her gaze through the cluttered window.
Older was right; he looks like a full man, tall and lean and angular. Handsome, nearly, even when he gives that exasperated smile, a placating thing that means very little to the girl behind the deli counter and even less to her.
Someday soon, she’ll pull a real one from him. It’s a comforting idea, and it grows solid in her head, a bizarre knowledge that hasn’t plagued her since she was a child. And yet, in the empty car and the long night, she can feel a strange comfort from the image, a pleasant feeling that comes from the glint of Aemond’s teeth and the way the scar will twist when he’s smiling down at her.
Big and wide, like the grins he would give her when they’d hide under her bed, stowing away from the constant watch of Mother and Aegon and whatever caretaker they hadn’t scared off yet. He used to twine his fingers so tightly around hers that she thought he’d pull them clean off, and then they’d both match in uneven disfigurement.
“Here,” he mutters, and there’s something hot and vaguely oily in her hand. “You want a Coke?”
If she thinks hard enough, she can see the necklace lingering below his smile, swinging soft on his bare skin. Maybe it’s becoming a wish more than anything else, straying from the kernel of truth that lurks behind the picture, but she likes the way it feels inside. The swirling in her belly and the speed of her heart, fast enough to match the way his eye darts down her form and back up to her face, something like embarrassment crossing his face at the simple action.
“No, thanks,” she mumbles. “I’ll get something else to drink.”
She buys two six packs at the discount store and gets away without being carded by the creep working the register, but only because she bats her eyes and giggles at his poor joke and promises it's just my brother in the car.
Aemond doesn’t say anything when she presses the box into his lap, but he holds it carefully, making sure the bottles don’t knock together. When she looks over, he’s curving a finger around the nearest one, staking a soft sort of claim.
The garage is cold and half dark, and still it’s better to drink out here than get caught inside and risk a lecture. Better for him, anyway; she could deal with Mother’s chastising (sometimes gentle and sometimes terribly hard, yet both are manageable in their own ways,) but sometimes she thinks that Aemond would rather carve his heart out than be labeled a disappointment.
“How was practice?”
He looks up sharply, face curving in confusion until the question seems to click. “Oh. Uh, good.”
She smiles, and he turns back to watch the remainder of his dinner, poking at a fallen vegetable like it’s more interesting than anything she has to offer.
“Are you, um, winning?”
His eyebrows knit together, and there’s something approaching a smile tugging on his lips when he asks for clarification.
“I don’t know how that all… Like, do you have meets? Or-“
“Matches,” he says, still looking down at his lap, but the smile feels slightly more true. “They’re matches. And you used to come to my competitions.”
She did, although it was primarily so she and Aegon could hotbox in the tiny storage closets on the second floor. But, she figures, Aemond doesn’t need to know that.
“Yeah, you were good.” She tries to bump his knee with her own, but the action is awkward when it takes place over the cup holders, so she settles for a little tap of her elbow. Right between his ribs, bone on bone and an uncomfortable echoing sort of noise, but it’s nice to touch all the same. “Weren’t you?”
He nods (no room for argument, no attempt at any sort of modesty; it's true, so he sees no reason to deny it.) He can spend all his afternoons quietly praying with their mother, and yet she thinks the pride would still lurk just as plainly under his skin.
“I am,” he agrees, and his chest even swells at the statement. “I’m still good. Better now."
She smiles, and he turns away from that too.
The empty container slips off her lap when she reaches for the radio; no more Clash, but there’s some vague new wave station that seems innocent enough. It’s loud and rather obnoxious, yet somehow the rhythm seems nearly hypnotic, and she’s almost upset when he brings up a hand to lower the volume.
“I’m not mad at you.”
It’s soft, barely audible over the sound of drums, like it's very nearly a secret. She glances up to see him picking at the label on the drink, thumb working it’s way against the glass, jaw tensing even as he speaks.
“I don’t want you to think that,” he continues, and his teeth leave a pleasant mark on his bottom lip when he bites down roughly, like he’s holding in another statement entirely. “It’s not you.”
“What is it?”
Aemond sighs. “I don’t know.”
So childish. I don’t know, I’m angry, I hate you, it’s not you. I hate everyone.
“Well, I’m not mad at you either,” she tries, and the corner of his mouth lifts up. “So I’m glad we’re on equal footing.”
He laughs at that, hard enough to spill the bottle resting on his thigh, and it comes trickling down the back of his hand. Without thought, he brings it up to lick at his skin, tongue drifting over the vein, before he seems to catch her watching the action.
His hand drops.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, only she’s not quite sure what for.
“It’s alright,” she says. “It’s- I get it.”
He turns back to the bottle, to the abandoned label and the paper sticking under his nails. It curves on his fingers, wet enough to stay on his thumb and his forefinger even when he stops abruptly, like he’s clamping some sort of control down over his whole body. Right to his frozen legs, no longer tapping against the carpet.
Must be exhausting to live like that.
“It’s only, just-“ He sighs, face twisting like he can’t find the words, doesn’t know how to communicate something when he’s so ill-equipped for the topic. “You’re right. It’s different.”
Different. Her or him?
“I’m not different-“
“You are,” Aemond insists, and she can see him swallow, the bob in his throat and the tightness in his mouth. “You’re very different.”
It doesn’t feel that way. Rather, it feels like she went to school and when she came home, everyone else had simply moved on without her. Aegon and Mother and Daeron, all happy enough to see her and yet separate from the versions she left behind. Even Aemond, who used to beg and whine and plead with nannies until he was allowed to do just the same things as her.
Briefly, she wonders if he’d still be interested in trying the same things. If he still wants to fashion himself her equal, even in the areas their mother staunchly cautions him away from.
Belief is funny, because he’s always held so much of it, and for the first time, she considers he wears it as a defense more than a faith.
“Helaena,” he whispers, only there doesn’t seem to be a follow up to that, and his mouth makes a perfectly flat line, eyes drifting down to his lap.
She slips the bottle up to her own lips (a motion he very notably does not even glance at,) but when she pulls it away, her grip loosens. It’s not on purpose, really, but it’s not exactly an accident, and she can feel the glass against her neck before she can feel what happens next.
“Shit,” she hisses, yet her brother is dead silent, mouth slowly slipping open as he watches the sight unfold.
The liquid is chilly, sticky as it fizzes down her neckline and gathers in her lap, even as she tries to lean back. She tries to peel the fabric from her chest, holding it away as she shoves the bottle in the cup holder, and Aemond's gaze is suddenly unable to look anywhere else.
His eye flits down to her breast, to the point of her hardening nipple and the liquid sticking to her skin, lingering on the sight for far longer than she expects. Unashamed, almost, until he glances back up at the flush on her face, and he seems to shove the want deep back inside.
He roots around in the glovebox and shoves a fistful of napkins in her palm, attention pointedly returning to the console and the dashboard and anything that isn’t her wet shirt.
“Thanks,” she offers, but he only nods, head ducked over his own scraped bottle.
His hand twists sharply, right over the neck, and she can feel the thrumming settling down in her belly. It’s sharp and delicious, and she thinks she can nearly hear it beating inside his form too.
“I should-“ Aemond bites at his lip, another statement he can’t bring himself to make. “I should go to bed.”
It’s 9 pm, but she’s kind enough not to announce the fact. He shoves open the door, giving it a little kick with his boot when he can’t get it wide enough, and when it falls closed behind him, she can just make out the outline of dirt stamped into the plastic.
There’s a closet to separate their rooms, stretching nearly to the back of the house and full of Mother’s old gala dresses, or stuffed with winter clothes they’ve all outgrown. She has to step over a fallen shoebox, sneaking past Daeron’s snow gear to finally press her ear to the wall.
If his room is the same (she knows it is, Aemond is as much a creature of habit as their mother,) then his bed is shoved in the far corner, and all that sits between her and the body under the covers is a little bit of drywall. Nothing much at all; if she presses hard enough, she could reach right through the plaster and touch his skin.
She doesn’t, because it would scare him out of the scene she knows is playing out on the other side. But the thought is nice (he was warm in the car and she thinks he’ll be burning now, the fire in his blood just itching to come out,) and when she curves her palm against the wallpaper, even the fading pattern feels hot.
She hears a sigh, but it’s soft and delicate. Almost uncertain, and she closes her eyes to try and picture the look on his face, the constant guilt at war with the need she could feel radiating off of him. An ache, the same one pushing down her torso, building behind her belly like it’s throbbing between his legs.
Aemond hisses, sharper than before and even louder. Her nose bumps the wall when she scrambles to get closer, as near as she can, to take in the hushed groans that come next, the telltale sound of skin on skin, the long strokes and the quickening rhythm. Repetitive, comforting. Delicious.
He groans and her body tightens, suddenly aware of the hair sticking to her neck and the fabric pulled tight over her breasts, like it’s oppressive to simply stand in the back of the closet and hear her brother get off.
Her fingers slip against the hem of the shirt, playing with the cotton as Aemond’s breathing gets heavy, a gentle moan slipping out, half-heard before it’s muffled by something. She pictures his face in the pillow, and then she pictures his hand over his mouth, and they’re equally fulfilling. Both satisfying, because he’s trying so hard to keep quiet and still unable to silence himself, too overwhelmed with the idea of-
“Fuck,” he whispers, and she has to press her hand to her thigh to keep it from sliding any higher. “God.”
That pulls a smile.
“Fuck.” Louder, but he must realize it too, because she doesn’t hear anything at all for a moment. Only silence, before the bed squeaks and his sighs resume, covers rustling over the frantic motion.
Filthy, she thinks, and if she said it to his face, he’d turn that sweet shade of pink once more. All down his chest and right to his cock, wrapped tight in his hand as he covers up the soft words once more.
Her nails are pinching her leg, so she settles for fisting at the shirt (it’s soft under her touch, and she could rip it clean off, although it would feel far better if someone else did the same.) The finish comes quickly, gentle breaths and a quiet little cry, almost near enough that she can feel the exhale, the warmth on her cheek and his hands on her body.
He’d be uncertain there, too. Unsure of what to do, where to touch. So malleable and new; it would be a kindness, really, to tell him how to behave. A sweet gift she can give him, for being her favourite brother.
The bed rustles as Aemond turns over, and she thinks of his eye peering at the very same wall, watching the spot where her cheek rests. If he looks hard enough, maybe he’ll be able to see her there, hand slipping up her belly as she lingers on the sounds that escaped his mouth, the quiet swears she’s never heard from him. Not like that, not like he really means them.
She drops the ruined shirt in the hamper, the bottoms just above, but she doesn’t bother to wipe the dried liquid from her skin. When she lays in her own bed, she smells like beer and Aemond’s car and almost (almost) a little like her brother himself.
He won’t look at her at breakfast, preferring to scarf down a bowl of cereal like he’s already an hour late, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder and bypassing her completely on the way out.
There’s not much to do; he’s in school all day and Mother leaves for a meeting in the city, so it’s simply her all alone in the house, wandering from empty room to empty room.
She falls asleep in the den at some point, passed out between the broad family portrait above the fireplace (they’re all smiling, and yet she seems to remember the day very differently) and the collections of Daeron’s video games stuffed on the bookshelf. The dreams are cold and half dark and feel like bone scraping bone, but she wakes up smiling, and there’s the telltale sound of footsteps up above.
The kitchen cabinets are open, and she can spot the messy blonde hair poking out behind, knows the voice even before he speaks.
“How do we have no food in this house?” Aegon slams the door shut with a surprising force, even as he winces slightly at the noise. “You’d think we were poor.”
She twists the smile, trying to keep it subdued until he leans in to kiss her forehead, scratchy lips and something familiar on his breath.
“Hello,” he says. “You look nice.”
The top is cropped and tight, and the shorts only stretch to mid-thigh when she tugs on them. If Mother had been downstairs this morning, she would have fled back to her room to change, yet it was just Aemond and Daeron at the breakfast table, and still only one of them bothered to look at her.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Aegon starts, and she has a feeling there will only be one way to take it, especially as he vaguely gestures at her chest. “Have you always had those? Or did they sort of pop out at school?”
“You’re disgusting,” she tries, but his gaze sticks to her body even when he shuffles back to let her peer in the fridge.
“You’re the one wearing lingerie in the family kitchen. At one.”
One. School lets out at three, so she’s got enough time to pick out something better for tonight. She can turn on the upstairs tv and lounge on the couch until he gets home (through the mudroom door, because he still cuts behind the stables every day,) and pretend it’s just a wholly funny coincidence that she’s all dolled up with no place to go.
“Who’s that for, anyway?” Aegon pulls open the far cabinet, rummaging around inside until he can pull out the pack of cans. “Somebody coming over?”
She shakes her head.
“Well, mum’ll drag you to service on Sunday if she catches you in that.” He hops up on the counter, uncaring for the multiple empty chairs, the open couch stretching in the living room. “So unless you want to spend your weekend praying with Aemond, I’d change before she’s back.”
That pulls another grin, sharp and pretty, so she tries not to picture Aemond resting softly on his knees, hands clasped tight and that wide look in his eye.
“Where were you yesterday?” She asks, and he heaves an exaggerated sigh.
“Stupid mess,” he groans, popping the can with an exaggerated flourish, ignoring the drops that spill on his trousers. “Idiotic, really.”
She waits, for the offered drink and for her brother to give a half-hearted little smile, finger pinching over hers when she takes the can.
“Erryk’s mad at me for something dumb, and he doesn’t want to be a man and talk about it, so he called the cops and said I was selling behind the school gym.”
“And you were-“
“Yes, I was selling behind the school gym, but he didn’t have to tell people.” Aegon rolls his eyes, head tipping back into the cabinet, pinching at his nose like the memory is simply too much.
She settles on the island, curving around the closed drink. It’s warm (hot, nearly,) but he doesn’t seem to mind, taking another long sip before he continues.
“Anyway, I’m very handsome and charming and got off with a warning, but they said somebody had to come pick me up.”
“Mum?” She prompts, half interested and mostly hoping for the frenetic description of what an inevitable disaster that interaction was. Maybe that’s why she’s seen so little of their mother in the past day; she’s mentally recovering from another Aegon-infested scandal.
“Uh, no,” he mumbles, picking at the stain setting on his jeans, voice shifting just an octave higher. “Rhaenyra came.”
Part of her wishes that sounded like more of a shock, but his face is pulling into that sad, wistful expression he only ever wears after two glasses of wine, when he takes her face in his hands and asks if she thinks he’s a disappointment too.
(Sometimes, she says, but she kisses his cheek anyway.)
He leans forward, intent tone and an explanation already pouring out. “I mean, she can almost pass for my mum-“
“I’m sure that’s what you called her, too.”
His mouth flattens, not quite a smile and a solid glint shining in his eyes. Not displeased, but perhaps upset that she's caught on as fast as this.
“You know, we’ve always been… Incredibly close,” he claims, although she doubts that even Daeron would take that as fact. “I don’t have to tell you about what happened at Laena’s wedding.”
(They kissed. Once. No tongue and some vague over-the-clothes heavy petting, when Rhaenyra was half-drunk and Aegon likely was too. It was after the first divorce but before Uncle Daemon, and her brother was 18 and pretty. She gets it, really, and she could recite the story by heart, as if it was nearly her own.)
“It was lovely,” he mutters, and she’d laugh if she didn’t think he really, truly meant it. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do this summer.”
She grabs the tab, working it slowly between her fingers, back and forth until it barely pops the metal open. There’s no rush of air, none of the fizz that spilled on his knees, yet he watches the movement as she raises it to her mouth, his eyes narrowing when she takes a slow sip.
Her hand wipes at her lips, coming back with cherry red stains on the skin. “What?”
“Hm?”
“What are you doing this summer?”
He smiles, minute and genuine, just for himself. “I think I’ll fuck Rhaenyra.”
She does laugh at that one. Loud and brash and growing even stronger when his brow furrows, such a heartfelt, confused look growing on his face.
“You’re insane-“
“Why? Why wouldn’t it happen?” He sounds like a little boy, still clinging to a fantasy the same way Aemond clings to his lovely necklace. “I think I can make it happen.”
Make it happen, like he’s scheduling in a quick run to the grocery. Mother always used to say she was lost in the clouds, but Aegon seems wholly lost to his own delusion.
“I do have some skills in this world, Hel.” He finishes the can, crunching the metal swiftly under his hand, just as his attention drifts right back to her. For a moment, he only watches, tracking from the swing of her legs up to the shirt creeping higher on her torso, and the light peeking from his gaze seems to grow brighter.
“And you?” He says, smile in his tone and his eyes but somehow missing from his lips. “Who are you dressed for?”
“They’re pyjamas-“
“Who picked you up?” He poses, like his brain is suddenly remembering that life went on outside of his own problems, the three year crush he’s been unsuccessfully harboring. “Yesterday. Did Mum come get you?”
She hums.
“No, she’s got Daeron’s weird nature shit. Cole?” He purses his lips, fighting off the grin, the self-assured look slipping even more confident. “No, he couldn’t tear himself away from shepherding Mum around.”
The can feels even hotter, warmed up only from sitting between her legs, and she sticks a stained finger just in the opening, close enough to feel the sharp edge and too quick to be cut.
“Aemond?” He asks. “Bet he was thrilled.”
She presses harder, skirting the edge and dipping just to the top of the liquid, until her knuckle gets caught on the tab, and the edge slices clean through her forefinger.
“Not really,” she says, but it sounds too truthful, too sad. Too lonely.
As always, Aegon sniffs out weakness like a hound. Blood in the water and floating straight under his gaze, as he finally lets the smile cross his face once more.
“So, what? You’re mad he’s in his angst era and won’t be your friend anymore? And this is your plan to get him back?” He slips off the counter, an unsteady stance as he regards her closely, sizing her up for something. “Trying to seduce him?”
It sounds silly when it comes from someone else, only it makes perfect sense in her head.
“I’m not seducing anyone-“
“You’ve always been a horrible liar,” he mutters, and she drops her focus to his feet, to the scuffed Converse slipping closer across the floor. “You’ll really need to improve if you’re trying to score here.”
She scores plenty at school, where people are into things like knowing how many tortoiseshell butterflies live in the public gardens and how to help them breed by planting peony bushes along the sidewalks.
“I admire the commitment, though.” He huffs out a little laugh, almost approaching actual happiness. “Think you’re actually biting off more than me.”
It’s hard to tell what is the wine and what is her leaking blood, so she sets the can on the counter. When she looks back up, his gaze flits from her hand to her face, and even she can't misconstrue the idea that’s clearly lurking beneath. Something so enjoyable that it's shifted his whole expression, and he sounds positively gleeful as he continues.
“How about,” he slips closer, shoes bumping her feet, something heavy on his breath. “How about a bet?”
Her mouth twists; despite her better judgement, there's a smile sitting just in the corners, fighting the urge to mock his own open grin. “How so?”
“Like, whoever completes their, um,” he pauses, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling, a look of thought she doesn’t think has ever crossed his face before. “Their challenge first wins.”
It doesn’t seem like much of a challenge, not with the way Aemond said her name last night, the darkness that stuck behind his gaze even at breakfast. But she ought to keep that to herself, and maybe she’ll get something fair out of it.
“What’s the prize?”
Aegon swallows, and she’s close enough to hear, to notice the way he unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, letting it poke between his teeth as he pretends to consider.
“Well,” he drawls, and his mouth slides up in another grin, but it’s startlingly different. The sort he used to give their little nephews, filled simply with sharp teeth and a harsh feeling. “I only have two sisters. I wouldn’t mind… Running the gamut. So to speak.”
Pervert.
“And me?” She curls both hands around the edge of the table, sitting up straight as his gaze drifts predictably to her chest, to the very carefully selected pyjama set, the little butterfly pattern she’d pulled on with a single face in mind. “What do I get when I win?”
The smile shifts to something approaching genuine humour, and he huffs a little laugh. “If you win, and that’s a big if, because I have it on good authority that he’s still a card carrying member of the abstinence club.”
She knows. She’s seen it, poking out of his wallet where other boys would hide better secrets.
“So, if you win…. I dunno. What do you want?” He slips a hand just over hers, thick fingers and a heavy weight, like he’ll coax the same answer.
Not that.
“Sunfyre.”
He waits, blinking back with a look of sheer confusion, before splitting into another raucous laugh. “You’re funny-“
“That’s what I want.” She crosses her arms, and he steps back at the movement, trying to see if he can call the bluff.
He won’t, she thinks, because there’s no use in betting on low stakes. Not for him, or for her, or anyone in their delightfully disturbed family.
“You already have a horse-“
“I’ll sell him,” she states, even if the idea sounds exceptionally cruel. “Get enough money to live on my own next year. Maybe go on a trip, even.”
Aegon grits his teeth, and she can see the conflict playing out in his mind, the sheer impulse control it’s taking to actually stop and think about this. It’s impressive, truly, to find that he possesses this kind of critical thought, but perhaps it’s only because she's selected the one thing he cares about above all else.
“Fine,” he mutters, and he thrusts out his hand like he’s ending a business meeting, fingers outstretched and a hard look on his face. “We have a deal?”
She feels the smirk pulling on her lips, the uncontrollable urge to let the giggles spill out.
“Deal,” she agrees, and her brother’s hand is cold but his eyes are warm, and she watches him release the same laughter, the same excitement building in her own chest.
There’s footsteps at the door, the sound of metal turning in the lock, and Aegon’s grin grows wider.
“Right,” he whispers, final squeeze to her palm and another on her thigh, right where it makes her jump. “Go get 'em, then."